


and they were roommates

by jugheadjones



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bisexual Fred Andrews, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Roommates, Sex, a little ooc, bisexual FP Jones, completely self indulgent, its an au for a reason!, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 06:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17441282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugheadjones/pseuds/jugheadjones
Summary: Fred wastes no time in putting his tongue down Hermione’s throat again, and FP turns over and faces the wall, turning up the Thompson Twins as far as they’ll go and obstinately not listening to the bed creaking, not listening to his roommate moaning, not thinking about the rustle of sheets or their naked bodies or the way that Hermione moans his new roommate’s name every so often in a way that tells him beyond a shadow of a doubt that Fred Andrews of room 309 knows what he’s doing in the sack.





	and they were roommates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bisexualfpjones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualfpjones/gifts).



> just a lil drabble for fun! i've been meaning to write this for ages briana thank you for reminding me!
> 
> rest assured halram are in the room next door having their own sexuality crises.

“Want some Oreos?” is the first thing FP’s new roommate says to him. 

Okay, first he says “Hi! I’m a hugger” and hugs FP and makes a whole production out of the fact that they’re going to be squeezed into the same sweaty room for the next two semesters. But this is the first conversational attempt, thrown out as Fred’s suddenly on his way to the door with the hand of a random brunette (she’d been in the room when FP got there) locked in his. 

“We’re going to the dining hall. Want some Oreos? Apparently, you just sneak them out in your bag. I mean, or you could come with us.” Fred is bouncing on the balls of his feet, a real energetic guy. “I haven’t eaten all day and I hear the dinners are really good.” 

“Nah, you guys go,” says FP slowly, folding a towel with unnecessary precision on his bed. “I have to unpack.” 

This isn’t true. FP had left his trailer with exactly one duffel bag, and it wasn’t even full. But the girl is glaring at him like she’s daring him to accept, and Fred seems like a little too much for him right now. 

When Fred returns from the dining hall he’s flanked by the same brunette, who FP has begun to assume is his girlfriend. They crowd onto Fred’s bottom bunk and start talking excitedly about their classes and the campus and a host of things that FP has yet to care about. Then Fred has his hand on her thigh, and then they’re suddenly kissing - kissing so frantically and passionately that FP starts looking up from his book to see when and if they’re breathing. 

“Hey, FP-” His new roommate says hesitantly at around nine, “is it okay if Hermione stays the night?” 

(Hermione. What kind of name was that? Rich coming from someone named Forsythe, but still.) 

“No problem,” says FP, and puts his headphones on so Fred knows that he knows what ‘stay the night’ means. Fred wastes no time in putting his tongue down Hermione’s throat again, and FP turns over and faces the wall, turning up the Thompson Twins as far as they’ll go and obstinately not listening to the bed creaking, not listening to his roommate moaning, not thinking about the rustle of sheets or their naked bodies or the way that Hermione moans his new roommate’s name every so often in a way that tells him beyond a shadow of a doubt that Fred Andrews of room 309 knows what he’s doing in the sack. 

* * *

So Hermione’s not his girlfriend. Hermione’s not his girlfriend, or else Fred’s a horrible person and FP’s become an unwitting accomplice in some kind of guy code for cheaters, because after Hermione comes Debbie, and Sandra, and Sarah, and Jessica, and Courtney, and Faye, and Jeanie, and a whole ledger of young women, enough to fill a small cheerleading squad. Hermione does reappear, and Sarah and Jeanie show up again sometimes - Fred likes redheads, he learns - but mostly it’s a rotating door that creaks open around eleven every night, spilling a giggly Fred and insert-woman’s-name-here into the dark shadows of their dorm room where FP turns over to the wall and pretends to be asleep. 

FP’s resigned himself to being the good roommate, to downloading new music onto his device at the library so that he can drown out the girls and the mattress creaks with KISS or Nirvana or AC/DC. Most of the time he’s lucky enough to be asleep, headphones on, by the time Fred gets in, but other nights he hears far too much of Fred’s sexcapades - the volume only goes up so far. 

He’s learned a lot about Fred’s sexual habits that he wished he didn’t know - aside from the obvious, he now knows that Fred has a weird, annoying giggle - that a large part of his foreplay is whispering sweet things in the girl’s ear (sometimes, out of pure curiosity, FP dials the volume down to hear snatches of it) and that Fred Andrews is without a shadow of a doubt a  _giver_. 

But he doesn’t mention it, just because he doesn’t want to have that conversation, and really who is he is to keep the guy from having a good time? FP’s no one, just some dumb kid who’s here on a football scholarship and who’s failing all his classes. FP’s a heavy sleeper - Fred’s no worse than listening to his dad swear at the TV and break bottles and hit things back home. At least he has his music. 

So they don’t talk about it. And in the morning, when the girls slip out, Fred turns his big toothy smile on FP and tells him what a hell of a good friend he is (in Fred’s mind they’re friends now, Fred doesn’t refer to him as a roommate anymore, despite FP never putting effort in) and it’s momentarily like being blinded by the sun. 

Fred’s always inviting him to go places - to the dining hall, to the library, to the pub or to some event or another - but FP never accepts. He’s not sure why. Fred never stops asking though, and he’s started leaving dining-hall packets of pre-sealed Oreos all around their room - possibly out of worry that FP doesn’t know how to feed himself. 

FP appreciates it. They have a long conversation one day about whether golden Oreos are better than the traditional ones - Fred’s on the side of golden Oreos, though FP could have told you that by looking at him - and until Hermione comes storming in asking what Fred got on the English 100 midterm, it’s almost enough to make FP believe he’d made a friend after all. 

* * *

They’re about halfway through a mid-sized high school’s cheerleading squad when the door opens at far past eleven on Friday night - almost two in the morning, by FP’s watch - and Fred and another girl come stumbling in. FP had turned down the volume on his music to lull himself to sleep, and hears every word of their conversation. 

“Sssh, shh,” Fred is saying, his words laced with that annoying giggle of his, though he’s clearly trying to keep it down. “My roommate’s sleeping. We have to be quiet.” His voice takes on a teasing, scolding tone that makes something go loose and floaty in FP’s stomach. “Seriously” 

FP feels a weird fondness for Fred hit him, an unexpected softness in his chest. Fred didn’t have to be that considerate, and yet he was. But the other person’s voice jars him abruptly out of his thoughts. 

“Oh, I can be quiet.” It’s a much deeper voice than FP had been expecting - a man’s voice. He opens his eyes to slits and sees them in the sparse light from the curtain - Fred’s clothed form and some muscular, heavy body in front of him that definitely doesn’t belong to someone named Jeanie. The stranger is standing so that FP can only see his back, running his hands slowly up Fred’s arms. There’s a laugh in the voice - not Fred’s sex-muddled giggling, a heavy, warm amusement that’s surely punctuated with a sexy eyebrow raise. “Can you?” 

Fred’s voice has gone huskier now too, and FP loses it under the sound of his music. Slowly, very slowly, not really knowing what he’s doing, he inches his hand under the sheets toward the player and taps _pause_. The silence is like a jolt. 

“On the bed,” Fred’s saying, speaking between kisses, and then the bed on the other side of the room creaks loudly as the bigger guy climbs onto it. They keep kissing, lots of little ones that means they’re going slow, taking their time. They smell a  _lot_ like beer - the campus pub is one of the few places outside of these four walls that FP has ventured, and he figures they must have come from there. His stomach feels odd, his hands shaky, and he _really_ should have gone to the bathroom before Fred came home. 

“Sssh,” says Fred, and then the rustling that means clothes are coming off, the loud unmistakeable sound of a zipper coming down and denim hitting the floor. FP swallows hard and circles the _play_  button with his thumb, knowing what he should be doing but unwilling to do it. The two of them are laughing quietly, the bedsprings squeaking, but as far as FP knows they’re still making out - because he isn’t quite sure how it would  _work_ , the other thing, but - 

Through his headphones, everything seems somehow louder, like listening to your own blood when you press a shell against your ear at the beach. He waits and waits for the urge to hit the play button again, to drown out their playful, sexy, twisted, loud, lovemaking under the wailing tones of an electric guitar, but it’s like his thumb has frozen, or gone numb, and he can’t hit the button. 

He could be annoyed. He could be disgusted. He could at least acknowledge how very, very wrong and invasive it is to listen to your drunken  ~~roommate~~ friend make love to a guy twice his size, even if Fred is essentially putting it on display for him like a flagrant piece of performance art. 

Only he just lies there in the dark, legs squeezed together, and listens. 

To all of it. 

* * *

Thus begins the boys. Hermione still comes around, and a nerdy redhead or two, but suddenly it’s not uncommon for Joes and Jacks and Mikes and Stevens to slip under Fred’s covers, to stumble laughingly through his door and leave their socks and jeans in a trail toward Fred’s bed. The dining hall offerings from his roommate get better - brownies and cookies as well as packaged Oreos- and while FP could get such things for himself - he pays for it too, after all - it feels oddly touching and important that Fred is apologizing for his transgression in such a way. FP munches his brownies and turns his music up and focuses on not failing his classes. 

Once, feeling bold, FP inquires about the name of the first boy Fred had had home - the one with the muscles and the hulking back, who had nevertheless patiently and obediently waited for Fred to give the orders  - even as mundane as _sit down_  and  _kiss me._  (FP’s stomach gets a weird kind of churning in it when he thinks about that, which definitely has nothing to do with the Oreos he’s been eating for every meal.) 

Fred laughs. “That was Tom,” he says, knotting his necktie in front of the mirror, “but you won’t see him around again. He likes to play straight. I only got him home with me because he’d been drinking.“ 

Fred had left in the same flurry of energy that he always did, and FP had walked to class alone, his thoughts turning sluggishly through his brain. That was that, then. Fred was the person he’d been warned about - some kind of homosexual predator, stalking the halls of his school and picking out upstanding young straight men, getting them drunk and corrupting them, plying them with drinks and love-talk and his giggly sunlight warmth, luring them into his trap. 

Only Tom had acted pretty damn happy about getting caught. 

Is he homophobic? FP wonders, sliding into the dining hall after hours, when the place is almost closed. He grabs a sandwich and two packages of Oreos and carries them back to his room, mulling it over. It was possible. His dad had raised him on the loud belief that people _like that_  were disgusting, depraved, barely a step above animals. It didn’t seem to FP that it  _could_  be natural, and yet Fred (Fred and Henry, Fred and Steven, Fred and Myles) seemed to make it work every night just fine. 

It was just undeniable that he felt a certain way when Fred brought boys home, a way that he didn’t feel when it had only been girls. And he didn’t like the feeling - an antsy crawling, a churning sickness, a heat and heaviness in the pit of his gut that made him squirm and kept him from sleeping. 

So maybe he was homophobic. Whatever. He wasn’t going to say anything about it. 

And if his thoughts turned to Fred and Tom when he was jerking off, that was his business. 

* * *

And yet one day he has to bring it up, because Mike or Steven or whoever had been so fucking satisfied last night, had so loudly and so enthusiastically moaned about Fred’s predisposition toward hitting all the pleasure centres down there that FP hadn’t managed a single second of sleep. It wasn’t the noise - he had his headphones for that, and Fred was good about giving his conquests the caveat that his roommate needed his beauty rest - but it was something about the way the guy acted with Fred – too brash, too experienced, too pleased. It was a boy FP had seen before, and this doubled his annoyance - the possibility that this could become a regular ritual, that Fred and this specific man - rather than a faceless, solid, co-ed cheerleading squad of them - could penetrate FP’s four walls and make loving and passionate sex to his roommate for the rest of the year. 

He steps in front of Fred while he’s on his way out to meet Hermione for a game of frisbee, a red wool sweater on that makes him look annoyingly sporty and collegiate and brings out the sparse brown freckles on his nose. 

“I don’t think you should have guys over anymore,” says FP bluntly. And then, when Fred says nothing - “I don’t want you to." 

Fred had swallowed hard, his eyes welling up with tears - FP had managed to say everything in those few sentences that FP Senior had ever said about gay men in his life - and had only nodded, his lips trembly and his eyes looking anywhere but FP’s face. And so the sex stops, and Fred’s smile stops, and Fred being in the room at all stops for awhile, and the Oreos and brownies and cupcakes stop, even when Halloween passes and they have cupcakes iced in orange with confetti bats - something that ordinarily would have sent Fred out of his mind with glee. 

FP takes two home from the cafeteria and leaves them on a little plate on Fred’s side of the room, adds a package of cafeteria Oreos as a peace offering. They go untouched. 

* * *

Fred goes every Wednesday to a meeting that is advertised on posters around the quad by an upside-down rainbow triangle and a heart. FP tears one down on his way home from the pub, hoping that anyone who sees him do so will just think him drunk, or a run-of-the-mill homophobe. From this he gleans the room number and that these meetings are open to all, newcomers welcome. 

What the hell. He swallows his pride, combs his hair, and shows up on Wednesday, 

The room is a big, airy, window-y one in the campus student centre. Students are sitting on the carpet in a big circle, and there are a lot more people than FP had expected. Nervous, he finds an open patch and sinks into a cross-legged pose on the ground. Fred’s there, and FP devotes all his energy to not looking at him, though he can tell Fred’s eyes are locked on his face with flaming intensity.  

The leader is a short girl with too many piercings in her ears and a shock of pink hair. She speaks above the general buzz of conversation, and one by one, the other students fall silent and listen to her. The girl smiles. 

"Today’s topic is misconceptions about bisexuality. To start off, does anyone want to share some that they’ve experienced?" 

The girl to FP’s right shoots up her hand before he has time to process the question. "People always think you’re down for a threeway." 

"That’s right. And some people think bisexuality and monogamy can’t go together. Anyone else?" 

"If you’re a girl dating a boy, people think you can’t be bisexual anymore,” speaks up a redhead across the circle. 

The girl with pink hair nods. “Yeah, that’s a big one." 

FP feels lost. Slowly, without looking at Fred, he puts his hand up as if in class. The girl turns to look at him, and FP feels the same nerves well up in his stomach that he gets in lectures when he knows he’s about to say something stupid. 

"Yes?" 

FP clears his throat. He can feel Fred’s eyes burning holes into his face. "I- could you explain what that is?" 

"Monogamy?” asks the girl, blinking confusedly at him. 

“No-” FP’s beginning to regret putting his hand up. His face is warm and he knows he’s blushing, though he couldn’t explain to himself why. “Bisexual. What does that mean." 

The girl beams at him, looking around the circle. "Does anyone want to take a crack at a definition?" 

"Bisexual is when you like boys and girls,” answers an extremely handsome boy to FP’s left, and smiles at him in a way that hits all the panic centres in FP’s brain. He almost gets up and runs. 

“No,” another boy speaks up, cutting him off, “bisexual is when you like more than one gender. Doesn’t have to be boys and girls." 

The first boy grins, showing dimples. "I stand corrected." 

"Bisexual doesn’t mean threeways,” chimes in an Asian girl with a ponytail. 

“Or that you’re slutty,” adds in her friend. “Or open to everyone." 

The definition turns into a long conversation, and FP does his best to follow it. His palms itch, but he feels more relaxed now that the attention is off of him. He can’t tell where Fred’s eyes are. 

FP’s never dated anyone, but he knew he wasn’t gay. FP had sex with girls,  _liked_ having sex with girls - had even had some since he’d arrived at this school. But he had not been made aware - not even by his father - of this third option. His stomach feels very tight.  

They break for snacks after the discussion circle, and FP makes a beeline for the cups and water. His mouth feels as dry as the Sahara just from listening. Before he can pour himself some, though, all five-foot-ten-inches of his angry roommate is barrelling up to him and hitting him in the stomach. Fred grabs FP by the arm and drags him out of the room, shoving him into a nearby supply closet and slamming the door. 

"Fred, what-" 

"You can’t be here!” Fred declares, his voice shaking with anger. In the dim light, he can still see his roommate perfectly. FP’s never heard him so mad. “You have some fucking nerve!" 

FP can’t resist challenging him. "Why not?" 

"Because this is a safe space!” Fred stands his ground, and FP is reminded with a jolt of the way he had spoken to Tom, who he’d since learned was an RA, a bouncer, and was older than Fred as well as twice his size. His stomach goes floaty again. “For good people. Who don’t want to be attacked. So please just go-" 

"The poster says open to all,” FP points out. “A guy can’t want to learn something?" 

Fred’s hands are curled into shaking fists. "Why don’t you stay in your world, and I stay in mine." 

"Pretty hard to do when we share the same nine feet." 

"Fuck you.” Fred looks oddly close to tears, the way he had the day FP had told him to stop bringing boys home. He shakes a fist at FP, which FP finds endearingly brave. “I’m just warning you, if you do anything to hurt any of these people, I’ll make you sorry." 

"You’re one to talk about hurting people,” FP retorts angrily. 

Fred pauses to stare at him, his mouth agape and his face pink. “What does that mean?" 

FP hadn’t meant to say any of this, but suddenly the words are pouring out of him, too fast for him to stop. "I mean you never spared a thought to how I felt when you were parading people past me every night. You never thought about how it might feel to listen to your roommate have sex all the time. Hear everyone talk about what a stud he is. Or wonder if something’s wrong with you because you were kissing every fucking boy on the campus except for me." 

FP hadn’t meant to say that last part. Fortunately, Fred’s angry enough that he breezes right by the awkward moment, the air around his retort crackling with heat. "I wouldn’t kiss you if you were the last person on earth!" 

"Good,” yells FP, and then before he can think of anything else witty to add, Fred grabs him by the front of his shirt and drags him down to his height and smashes their lips together. 

There’s nothing polite about this kiss - it’s all anger and all tongues and open mouths. FP kisses him and Fred kisses back, his tongue on FP’s teeth and FP’s stomach up somewhere around his heart and his heart fluttering up somewhere near his diaphragm. When they break apart Fred starts to laugh, his laughter vibrating against FP’s teeth. “That’s what this was about?” he asks. 

“What?” asks FP, spots blinking in front of his eyes. His mind is reeling. Something about the way Fred tasted - fuck.  _Fuck._ His stomach clenches, threatens to empty his guts out onto the floor. His hands are shaking. He’s never envied Hermione so much in his life. 

“You were jealous?” Fred’s laughing, but not meanly. His eyes are sparkling. “This whole time?" 

"Wouldn’t you be? 

Fred kisses him again, tenderly, all heavy tongue and wetness on FP’s lips when he pulls away. FP strains forward to follow him before realizing Fred was breaking the kiss. Fred notices and smiles. 

"Do you want to go back to the room?" 

FP looks down at his hands, at their two feet, only inches apart on the closet floor. "I, um..” Fred has a hand on the bottom of his chin, is running a thumb against FP’s lip, distracting him. He feels himself blush - worlds away from the cocky jock he used to be in high school. He keeps his voice low. “I don’t really know how-" 

"It’s okay,” Fred whispers in FP’s ear, and FP shivers, all the way down his spine to his toes. “I’ll show you. And all those other boys?” Fred licks a stripe up FP’s ear, his breath hot on his skin, and FP almost floats away into heaven. “Consider it practice for the real thing." 


End file.
